


Sordida Aqua

by ZombieBabs



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Light Angst, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 19:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12196101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: The story of Arcade Gannon, how he met Courier Six, and how, together, they decide to free New Vegas.





	Sordida Aqua

**Author's Note:**

> I felt there was more I could do with this story, so I rewrote it. I'm so much happier with the result. :)
> 
> Please enjoy!

Old Mormon Fort is full to bursting. Followers of the Apocalypse, doctors and researchers and volunteers alike, rush about, each with their hands full of stinking, puking, chem-addled gamblers, fresh off of the New Vegas Strip.

All except for Arcade Gannon.

He surveys the chaos of the Old Mormon Fort with keen green eyes, hidden behind a pair of glasses, the frames a thick black, with lenses dusted with ever present desert sand. A crack in the glass distorts the corner of his vision. A small inconvenience, but less than the hassle of finding the right prescription out in the Wasteland.

The gamblers tend to come in waves, like the swell of the moon. On top of the usual radiation sickness, muggings perpetrated by Freeside thugs, and the occasional cold, the gamblers spill in, until they no longer have the beds needed to accommodate every patient. Addicts shake and shiver, sprawled out in the dirt, grabbing at passing ankles, sobbing with withdrawal. 

Arcade shakes his head. He turns away from his fellow Followers and the patients in need. Not because he wants to. He’s been relegated to the back, however. To a small storage tent.

He’s a researcher. Not a particularly good one, he’s quick to tell others. Because he isn’t.

He’s spent weeks digging in the dirt. Weeks experimenting with different reactions of desert foliage. Weeks producing failure after failure.

It’s good work. Valuable work. But weeks of negative results have left Arcade frustrated. As poor as his bedside manner might be, at heart, he is a doctor. As much as he can’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut about situations being the sum of bad choices, the groans of the violently ill pull at his conscience. 

Arcade checks the status of his current round of experiments. He makes a note on his clipboard. Another failed attempt. Closer with the addition of Broc flower, but the mixture is a lumpy brown paste. Nowhere near the clear, injectable liquid it needs to be.

The tent flap rustles. 

Arcade looks up.

A woman wearing combat armor and a wide brimmed hat stands in the entryway. The woman sizes Arcade up, looking him up and down from the sweat curled mop of blond hair down to his scuffed, well worn boots with special appreciation. 

“If you don’t mind,” Arcade says, “I’m rather busy.”

“Well,” the woman says, “aren’t you a tall one.”

Arcade sighs. If he had a cap for every time he’s heard a line about his height, he’d be a rich man. Perhaps richer than Mr. House himself. “Go on. I haven’t heard anything about my abundance of height in the last day or so. Might as well make up my quota.”

The woman pops her hip, drawing Arcade’s attention to the messenger bag slung across her chest. The faded logo reads ‘Mojave Express.’

A courier?

“I’m sure I could,” she says. Or damn near purrs. She could give the girls at Gomorrah a run for their caps.

She moves closer, right into Arcade’s personal space, nearly pressed up against him. She places her hand on his bicep and squeezes. “Oh, and _strong_ , too.”

Arcade frowns. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The courier smirks. She drags her hand down his arm, the tips of her fingers grazing the back of his hand. “But, doctor, I’m sick.”

Arcade looks the woman over. He can find nothing immediately wrong with her, beyond the bandage glued to her head, hidden by the shadow of her hat. “This is a free clinic. We don’t exactly have extra supplies to hand out to perfectly healthy individuals.”

The courier pouts. She places both hands on her hips, pushing forward the swell of her breasts beneath her armor. “What do you mean? Don’t you want to give me a _full_ examination?”

Arcade steps away from the woman. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Again, this is a free clinic. And while I’m certain your _particular_ charms are appreciated elsewhere, they are wasted on me.”

The courier’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not exactly my type.”

The courier stares at him. She opens her mouth, possibly to convince him that yes, she absolutely _can_ be his type, if only he would give her the chance.

Arcade interrupts her before she can do so. “I prefer men.”

“Oh.” Her eyes go wide. “ _Oh_.”

“Right.” Arcade tries to turn away, to go back to his experiments, the conversation clearly over, but the courier’s hand grasps at the sleeve of his coat. Arcade stares at it. Her fingers tremble.

Exhaustion? Dehydration?

“Now that we’ve established there’s no need for you to trip over yourself, I’m really just a researcher. If you do need help, might I suggest one of the other doctors on staff?”

The courier blinks. She sways to one side before pitching over.

Arcade catches her the best he can. He lays her on the ground and checks her vitals. Unconscious, but her heart beats strong and steady.

“I need some help in here!”

Julie Farkas, her expression dark with impatience, steps into the tent. “We’re a little bu--”

Her expression changes quickly to concern. She jumps into action, kneeling beside the courier. “What the hell happened?”

“She collapsed.”

Julie shakes her head. “I can see that. Vitals?”

“Present.”

Julie frowns, but doesn’t rebuke him. She presses her fingers to the courier’s wrist, then to the pulse point below her jaw, counting heartbeats. She nods to herself, finding them within normal parameters. “Help me remove her armor. We need to check for injuries.”

Arcade is already loosening buckles. He doesn’t need instruction, but Julie is used to working with doctors with far less experience. She’s used to having to direct others during procedures. And after exiling Arcade to research, she often forgets he has more formal medical training than many of the Followers at the Old Mormon Fort combined.

Not that he’s quick to remind her. The last thing he needs is to _intentionally_ stir up questions about his past.

When they have the courier down to her briefs and the cotton binding her breasts, both Arcade and Julie share a look. The courier’s body is mottled with black and blue bruises. Not an uncommon sight in wastelanders wandering the Mojave. But some of the bruises are in the shape of fingers. Some are imperfect imprints of teeth. At least one is the exact size and shape of a man’s boot.

“Do you think she’s one of the girls from the Strip?” Julie asks.

“You think she might have escaped?”

It’s not common, but it’s been known to happen. Working girls stealing clothing from their customers, hoarding it until just the right moment, slipping past the bouncers as just another gambler in the casino. The way the courier acted, it wouldn’t surprise Arcade if she were one of the lucky ones to make it into Freeside.

Julie examines the courier, inspecting bruises. She presses down on the courier’s belly, checking for internal bleeding. She runs her fingers over the courier’s ribs, but the courier shows no sign of pain.

“Here.” Arcade peels back the bandage on the courier’s head. The wound is red, swollen around her stitches. “Looks like a...gunshot?”

To have survived a gunshot to the head, the courier must be even luckier than he first thought.

“It’s inflamed. We’ll have to take care of that before infection sets in.”

Julie frowns. She takes a look around Arcade’s cramped supply tent.

Arcade already knows exactly what she’s thinking. “No. Julie, no. Where am I supposed to sleep?”

“Isn’t there a nice young man you can charm into sharing a bed with you?”

Arcade makes a face. He doesn’t make a habit of sharing any bed, not even with his lovers. He can’t risk anyone getting too close, too attached. “I’m afraid I’m all out.”

Julie snickers. “All out of charm? Why, Gannon, I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Yes, you’re hysterical. You’ve truly missed your calling. You should have an act at the Tops.”

Together, they move the courier to his cot, tucked out of the way of his experiments. Julie heats some water and wets a rag. She lays it across the courier’s forehead, to help with the swelling and to draw out any traces of infection. Arcade digs through their dwindling supplies for a Stimpack. He injects it into her arm, careful to avoid her bruises. Julie covers the courier with Arcade’s thin blanket.

Julie returns to her previous patients.

Arcade looks around the supply tent. He sighs and does the only thing he can do. He goes back to his research.

 

The courier wakes several hours later. She watches Arcade from his cot, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Not even to complain about her relative nudity.

Arcade weathers her stare as best he can. He increases the heat beneath a bubbling flask. He takes notes on each of his observations. He recites Old World poetry to himself, hoping to take his mind off of the burn of her eyes on him.

Finally, he tears himself away from the chemistry station. He stalks over to the cot on long legs and towers over her. “Good news. You’re not immediately dying. We caught the infection before it could set in.”

“Infection?” 

The purr has gone out of her voice. Instead, Arcade now finds it to be quiet. Not timid, but he has to lean down to be able to hear her. “Isn’t that why you came to us?”

The courier shakes her head.

“No?”

“I felt sick.”

Arcade lifts his brows, waiting for more information. “Sick?”

The courier hums. She lays back on the cot and closes her eyes. “But I couldn’t stop ‘til I got here. To Vegas.”

“To Vegas? Not away?”

Her eyes reopen, a pale watery blue. 

“You’re not a runaway?” Arcade asks. “From the Strip?”

Her brows draw downward.

“You’re safe here,” Arcade continues. “If you are. We won’t turn you in.”

“Turn me into who? I’ve never been to Vegas. I don’t--I don’t think.”

“You don’t think?”

Her eyes turn inward, but she winces. “I can’t remember. On account of--” 

She presses her fingers to the newly dressed bullet wound on her forehead and hisses at the pain. “Knocked some stuff loose.”

Tired of leaning over the woman, Arcade swipes a chair from his work station. He positions it by her side. “Amnesia’s not uncommon with head trauma. What can you remember?”

“A man in a checker suit. He said something, something about the game being rigged from the start. He stole from me, something important. Then he shot me and left me for dead.” 

“That’s it? Nothing about where you’re from or who you are? Your name, perhaps?”

The courier pauses, searching within herself for the information. She shakes her head. “Six?”

Arcade frowns. “Six what?”

“My name. Courier Six.”

“Ah. Okay. Six,” Arcade says. Either she truly doesn’t remember her name or she’s giving him an obvious alias. “So you _are_ a courier.”

“For the Mojave Express.” Courier Six says. She struggles to sit up, letting the blanket slip down to her waist. She pats herself down, then looks over the edge of the cot on either side of her. “My bag--”

“Is with your armor. In a pile, over here.” Arcade points to it.

Courier Six’s shoulders slump with relief. “Oh. Good.”

She tries to swing her legs onto the floor, but Arcade puts up a hand. “The infection may be gone, but you need to rest. Rehydrate. Here, I’ll get you some water.”

They ran out of purified water weeks ago, but Julie recently acquired a shipment of water in dirty, yellowed plastic bottles. Arcade picks one and returns to his small sleeping area.

The courier is gone. Her clothes and armor are gone, as well as her messenger bag.

She wouldn’t have had time to don any of her clothing. She must have scooped everything up and bolted in the short minute or two he was gone.

Julie, her expression settled once more into impatience, comes into the tent. “Okay. What the hell did you do?”

Arcade holds up both hands. “Nothing.”

Julie gives him a skeptical look. “Right. She just went _streaking_ through the Old Mormon Fort for no reason whatsoever.”

Arcade shrugs. “I went to get her some water. When I came back, she was gone.”

“And you didn’t, I don’t know, insult her mother or something?”

“I assure you, I was on my best behavior.”

A small smile betrays Julie’s annoyance. “That’s not saying much.”

 

 

It really isn’t uncommon for wastelanders to wander into the Old Mormon Fort, to rest and to recover, and to leave as soon as they have the strength to stand. It’s unfortunate, but both Arcade and Julie have learned to take comfort in what they can do for their patients, before they run off into the wild of the Mojave--whether it’s back to the Strip for more chems or into the wasteland to face starvation, dehydration, and attacks from Raiders.

Arcade doesn’t expect to see the courier again. He goes back to his plants and his research.

A week later, Julie calls him from just outside his tent.

Arcade frowns at being interrupted from his work. His frown deepens at having been _glad_ to be interrupted. He steps out into the bright Mojave sunlight and squints.

“You have a guest,” Julie says. She looks amused, which instantly puts Arcade on alert.

“A guest?”

His last lover, a sun-weathered man with a whip-like wit, was _reluctant_ to part ways with Arcade. He hadn’t taken the rejection particularly well. Arcade unconsciously rubs at the mark left on his arm after that particular altercation, stopped only by the humming of Arcade’s plasma pistol as he flipped off the safety and pressed the muzzle just below the man’s ribcage.

He looks around, nervous despite being surrounded by Followers of the Apocalypse, but sees nothing of the man.

Instead, Julie steps to the side to reveal the courier.

Her arms are laden with chems.

“Six?”

The courier nods. She looks to Julie, then back to Arcade. “She said your name is Arcade.”

“I--yes.” Arcade shakes himself. He moves back the flap of the tent, allowing Six to go through. “You know, most people carry their belongings in a receptacle of some kind.”

Six cocks her head to the side. “A rec-recept-?”

“Receptacle. A container. A box, perhaps. Or a bag, much like the one you’ve got slung across your chest.”

Six glances at the bag. “Precious cargo.”

“Right. And so you thought hauling a virtual treasure trove of chems through Freeside--in plain sight--was preferable?”

She shrugs, nearly upsetting the contents of her arms. “No one stopped me.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that is the point.”

“Point is, I brought you medicine. For helping me.”

“I’m not sure how often I need to say this, but this is a free clinic.” He eyes her collected assortment. Med-X, Fixer, and Stimpacks. Even a few rolls of cotton strips used for makeshift bandages. “I’m not about to turn away supplies, however. We’re in desperate need of donations.”

Arcade takes an empty metal box from a shelf and brings it to the corner of his workstation. As Six empties her arms, placing each item one by one into the box, Arcade asks, “May I venture to ask where you collected such an assortment?”

Six shrugs. “Around.”

“Around,” Arcade says, completely deadpan. The Followers have cleaned out every deserted shack and ruin around for miles.

Or so Arcade thought.

“Traded favors with an NCR officer,” Six says, placing the last of the items into the box. “A few of them.”

“Favors?”

Six looks at him from beneath the wide brim of her hat. She _shifts_ from the quiet courier into the woman he first met. She places her hand on her hip, pops it, and flutters her eyelashes at him.

Arcade coughs. “I see. And they gave them to you. Just like that?”

Her voice is huskier, pitched seductively low. “Just like that.”

He takes off his glasses and carefully clears the lenses of dust, as futile as the task might be. Anything to hide his discomfort. “Thank you. I think.”

By the time he replaces his glasses, Six is once more the courier. Her hand is still on her hip, but her features are twisted into a mixture of annoyance and confusion. “You said you needed supplies.”

“We do.”

“But you’re not happy.”

Arcade shakes his head. “I am. Your contribution will be well received.”

She looks at him. _Really_ looks at him. Looks at him in a way that makes his skin itch with the urge to run, like she can somehow see right into the heart of him. “But what about your contribution?”

“I--” Arcade narrows his eyes at her. What could she possibly know about _his_ contribution? “My work is important. Without my research, we may never find alternative solutions for Old World medicine. Humanity can only rely on looting for so long. Eventually, we will run out.”

Six stares at him.

Arcade motions to the chemistry set bubbling away on the table. “We don’t have the ingredients or the processing plants to mass produce Stimpacks, but if we could discover a recipe even _similar_ \--think of the possibilities.”

Six cocks her head, nearly upsetting her hat. “Stimpacks?”

“Is that--is that all you took away from that?”

Six ignores him. She digs through her messenger bag to pull out a worn notebook. She flips through it. Some of the pages are loose, torn from books and placed into the notebook for safekeeping. Others are scribbled on in long lists of notes. Still others look almost like the pages of a diary, with paragraphs and paragraphs of text.

It’s one of the loose pages Six removes from the notebook. She holds it out for Arcade to take. “Why didn’t you just say?”

Arcade peers at the page. Behind his glasses, his eyes go wide.

He tears the page away from her, holding it close, almost unable to trust his eyes. 

The page describes, in detail, the exact procedure for creating a Stimpack from nothing but Broc flowers, Xander roots, and an empty syringe.

Arcade sits, rather heavily, in his chair. “Weeks. _Weeks_ , I spent-- And you--you had Granny's Secret Recipe for Homemade Stim? Where did you find it? _How_ did you find it?”

“Looked important. I figured it could come in handy. For trade, maybe.”

Arcade pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting off a headache.

“You could come with me.”

Arcade opens his eyes. “What?”

“You could come with me.”

“I meant, why? Why should I drop what I’m doing here to follow around a courier?”

“Like I said, you don’t seem all that happy.”

“I--” Arcade frowns, uncomfortable with the sudden loss of his previous mastery of the English language.

“Tell you what. I’ve got things to take care of up at the Strip. I’ll be around, if you want to talk. And just in case you’re one of those stubborn types, I’ll stop by just before I leave.”

She leaves, slipping quietly through the tent, the only signs of her having come the full box of supplies and the torn page of the Stimpack recipe.

Arcade busies himself with putting the supplies away, lost in the courier’s offer.

He isn’t...happy. Per se. He’s content. As content as any Enclave runaway can be in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, with Caesar's Legion and the NCR both fighting for dominance over the Mojave. It’s only a matter of time before one or the other converges over New Vegas. And with a only a paltry sum of Securitron robots against an entire army?

New Vegas will fall.

But what can he be expected to do about it? The Followers’ cause in Freeside may be an inevitable failure, but it’s a noble one. Far more noble than following at the tails of a courier across the desert wastescape. 

“Hey.”

Arcade jumps, hitting his head on a shelf. He stands, rubbing the back of his skull. “Julie.”

“Gannon.”

Julie leans against his workstation, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Did you want something?” Arcade asks.

“Your visitor. The courier.”

Arcade sighs. “Yes? What about her?”

“How did you get her to do it?”

“Again, I didn’t do anything. She brought us supplies on her own.”

“No,” Julie says. “How did you get her to negotiate a deal with the Wrangler?”

Arcade takes a breath. His head pounds. “What deal?”

Julie raises her brows. “She bartered with James Garret, trading our mechanical skills maintaining his stills for regular supplies of ethyl alcohol and Med-X.”

“She did what?”

“She--”

Arcade shakes his head. “I know, I know. The deal--are you going to take it?”

Julie tilts her head. “I’m not excited about it. I don’t like the idea of helping the Wrangler stay in business when they supply half of the chems and alcohol in Freeside. But think of the good we could do with full stocks of ethyl alcohol and Med-X.”

“So, you’re going to take it.”

Julie smiles a faint smile. “Yeah.”

She watches him as he finishes putting away Six’s supplies. It’s not much, but it’s better by far than what they had before. And with regular shipments of sterilizing alcohol and Med-X? With Stimpacks created right in the Old Mormon Fort? They could almost be called an actual hospital.

“You’re very quiet, Gannon. It’s not like you. She say something about _your_ mother?”

Arcade laughs. “It was one time. I hardly meant it to be insulting.”

“You hardly mean anything to be insulting.”

“No, she said nothing, insulting or otherwise, about my mother.”

“But she did say something?”

Arcade sighs. He looks up, eyes tracing the small tear along the crossbeam at roof of the supply tent.

“Seriously, Arcade, I hardly ever see you so conflicted.”

Julie never calls him by his given name. He meets her eyes. Her expression isn’t annoyed, but clearly interested. Perhaps there is a little concern there, as well.

“It’s nothing. Just..something to think about.”

Julie tilts her head. She stares at him, but doesn’t push him to answer. “Okay, well, a couple of us were going to go down to the Wrangler to draw up the contract with the Garret twins. We were going to get dinner afterward. Do you want to come?”

Arcade smiles. It’s not often he’s invited on excursions. “I appreciate it, but, no. There’s something--I think Six might have done more for us than anyone can realize.”

Julie raises her brows.

Arcade motions to the page still lying on his workstation.

Julie examines it. She looks at him, eyes wide. “Is this--?”

“I need to test it. Perfect it, if I can.”

Julie smiles. A real, honest smile. “Oh, Gannon. This is--tell me immediately if you need anything. If we have to get more hands on this--”

“Julie,” Arcade interrupts, “Julie, it’s fine. Go on, I’ve got this.”

Julie steps half-way out of the tent before she turns back. “I mean it, Gannon.”

Arcade gently pushes her the rest of the way out of the tent. “When have I ever been quiet about my needs?”

She laughs, the first full bodied laugh he’s ever heard from her. The first one unweighted by the uncertainty of their future, from the weight of turning away patients in need simply because they don’t have medicines to help them.

 

 

Over the next few days, rumors trickle into the Old Mormon Fort. Tensions between The Kings and the NCR officers stationed in Freeside are put to an end by a lone courier, dressed in combat armor and a wide-brimmed hat. Without any violence, without one fatality. Several of the casinos on the Strip go through _abrupt_ changes in management, facilitated by the same courier. Benny, one of the more notorious Chairmen at the Tops, is reportedly found naked in his bed with a gunshot wound almost identical to the one Arcade knows the courier keeps hidden under her hat. Except Benny turns out to be less fortunate than the courier. His wounds prove to be fatal.

And finally, the rumor too extreme for it to be anything other than true: Courier Six has been seen entering and leaving the Lucky 38. The first soul to enter the casino in two hundred years, formally invited by Mr. House himself.

Arcade reads a book while waiting for the next batch of Stimpacks to brew. Or tries to. Each new visitor brings new news of the courier. And despite himself, he finds himself desperate for each new addition to the courier’s tale. He keeps his face buried in his book, but his ears open, the voices of nearby patients audible through the material of the tent. 

“I swear, I saw it myself,” a traveler says. “She walked straight in, like she owned the damned place.”

“That’s the jet talking, Maurice,” another says.

Maurice laughs. “No foolin’. I swear, it was her.”

“Hold still,” Carlos, a Follower doctor, says. “I can’t keep these stitches straight with you laughing.”

Arcade expects Maurice to complain or for his friend to continue his ribbing, but a hush falls over the trio outside his tent. Over the entirety of the camp, it seems. All is quiet except for the bubbling of Arcade’s chemistry station. 

Until Courier Six enters the supply tent.

Arcade puts down his book and stands.

She looks the same as she did when she was last in his tent. Not at all like the hero of the Mojave the stories make her out to be. Her messenger bag hangs a little heavier at her side. She has a 9mm pistol in the holster under her arm, which wasn’t present before.

Maria. Benny’s favorite gun, the gun not found in his room upon the discovery of his body.

“You killed Benny,” Arcade says. He winces, for once sensitive to his own blunt nature. 

“How did you know?”

Arcade nods toward the pistol. Six looks down, as if she’s surprised to find it there. Or that its presence could tell so much.

“The checkered suit,” Arcade says. “Was he--?”

Six nods.

Over the last week, Arcade has convinced himself he’s more suited to the work in Freeside, that he can do more for the people here than he can at the courier’s side. He’s rehearsed how he would refuse her offer, should she make it again. But now the courier has taken revenge upon the man who shot her and left her for dead? Now that her ‘business’ on the Strip is concluded? She’s sure to rescind the offer herself.

So why is he so disappointed?

“I don’t like killing,” Six continues. “I don’t like hurting people. But sometimes...sometimes it’s the right thing to do.”

“Is that why you--?” 

He can’t finish the question, but she seems to know what he means.

“I’m--I’m not sure who I was before. But fighting? Killing? It doesn’t sit right with me. It’s easier, _better_ , I think, doing it my way.”

“Unless it’s the right thing to do?” He glances once more at the pistol under her arm.

She smiles. “I don’t often have to do much more than flirt, if I’m honest. And if it saves a life? Well, the cost isn’t too high, now is it?”

“That’s...pragmatic,” Arcade says. Somehow, even more pragmatic than Arcade’s casual approach to relationships.

“Not really sure what that means. But I like that you talk smart, Arcade.”

Arcade laughs, a soft exhalation through his nose. “Give it time.”

Six’s entire person brightens. Her eyes light up with some inner spark. Her skin glows, even in the dimness of the tent. Her smile is wide, genuine. “Does that mean you’ve decided? To come with me?”

“I don’t understand.” He frowns. He’s not used to not understanding. He doesn’t enjoy the sensation. “With Benny dead, surely your quest has ended. You got your revenge.”

The wattage of her smile dims. “What Benny stole from me. The game he talked about. It’s bigger than you or me. It’s bigger than revenge. But I think--I think if we worked together, we could do something. To help New Vegas.”

“How?”

She tells him. About Mr. House and the Platinum Chip. About finding a repurposed Securitron named Yes Man through a crack in the wall of Benny’s suite. About the possibility of a free New Vegas, secure against the threat of the NCR, Caesar's Legion, _and_ Mr. House.

Arcade swallows, digesting the information. 

A free New Vegas. It’s a small difference, in the grand scheme of things. But he would be deluding himself if he thought he could bring down Caesar’s Legion and the NCR in their entirety. It’s a small difference, and nothing which could quite atone for the sins of the Enclave, but it is _something._

“I need a moment. To gather my things. To say goodbye.”

“I’m staying at the Lucky 38. Just tell the cowboy out front who you are, he’ll let you in. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

The Lucky 38. Arcade shakes his head. If freeing New Vegas doesn’t work out, at least he’ll have made history as the second person in two hundred years to enter the casino.

The courier smiles. She breezes out of the tent.

Arcade doesn’t have many belongings, personal or otherwise. He has his Followers coat, the worn boots on his feet, his trusty plasma pistol, and a duffle bag filled with a few changes of clothing and a handful of caps. His father’s old Enclave armor was stashed away long ago, buried in a desert cave should he ever have need of it.

He eyes the small collection of Old World books stacked neatly by his cot with regret, but he’s always known he may have to run, to leave them behind. At least he can be assured the Followers will take care of them.

He steps out of the tent, duffle bag hanging from his shoulder, plasma pistol on his belt, and squints against the bright Mojave sun.

Silence descends once more upon the camp. All eyes turn to stare at him.

Julie Farkas emerges from the crowd. She tilts her head and smiles her small smile. “I suppose this is goodbye?”

Arcade scratches the back of his neck. Now that she’s in front of him, the defacto leader of their little outfit, he has no idea what to say to her.

Julie steps into his space. She wraps her arms around him, giving him a quick embrace, one he doesn’t have time to reciprocate, even should he want to. “You’re a good man, Gannon. Good luck out there.”

“Goodbye, Julie Farkas. _Ut nobis iterum convenian_.” 

She smacks his shoulder, her expression settled into her usual impatience. “Go on, get out of here. Don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

“Okay,” he says.

When the gate slides shut behind him, it’s with a startling finality. But Arcade has never let himself become attached to any one place, always knowing in the back of his mind the possibility of someone discovering his past, his identity. 

He counts himself fortunate to be able to leave not in the dead of night, dodging bounty hunters, the NCR, or even the Brotherhood of Steel. He counts himself fortunate for the number of well wishes thrown at his back, instead of hatred. He counts himself fortunate he could return to this place, should he wish it.

 

 

Weeks later, Arcade is pulled from his thoughts when the courier collapses in front of him. His first instinct, as a doctor, is to rush to her side. His second--admittedly stronger--instinct is to stop in his tracks and sigh. “Just _how_ did you manage to trip over that rock?”

The rock in question is more of a small boulder, around the height of Arcade’s shin. Large, considering his height. The only rock of its size in miles.

Six smiles beneath the shade of her hat. “I didn’t see it.”

Arcade pinches the bridge of his nose, upsetting his glasses in the process. “You didn’t see it.”

“Guess it must have jumped out and got me.”

Arcade offers Six his hand and hoists her from the burning desert floor.

ED-E swoops in. It flies around the courier, beeping in concern.

Six laughs and pats the bot’s metal shell. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Arcade glares at the Enclave Eyebot Six picked up a week prior. While it may not spew Pre-War propaganda, its presence produces in him a mild, simmering panic. If others were to recognize the small bot as Enclave technology, how much longer would it be before they recognized Arcade as Enclave, as well?

As much as he dislikes the thing, however, as much as he distrusts it, ED-E is often more aware of their surroundings than its human companions. Playing a brief audio clip from an Old World country western, ED-E will fly into action, alerting Six and Arcade to nearby danger.

They continue their trek across the desert wasteland. The sun hangs heavy overhead, like it too can feel the oppressive heat of its own scorching rays. 

Arcade swipes sweat from his forehead. Not that it does much good. Moisture beads upon his skin almost immediately after it’s gone. He resists the urge to scratch at the bridge of his nose, the itch a sure sign of sunburn settling into his damnably fair skin.

Arcade rummages through his pack. He hands Six a bottle of dirtied water. He takes a sip from his own bottle, but it offers very little relief.

Six makes an appreciative noise. She holds the water in her mouth, lets it roll around her tongue like an expensive wine, before swallowing.

If he were another type of man, Arcade might have been turned on by the sight, by the sounds of her. But he isn’t and he only huffs a laugh. “Sordida Aqua. Strong hints of bitter sand and desperation, baked in the brutal Mojave sun, offering a subtle acidic aftertaste of 200 year old radiation.”

Six looks at him askance, his wit entirely lost on her.

He waves a hand in front of his face, as if batting away a fly, letting her know she can forget it, it’s not important.

She smiles and hands him the half-empty bottle of water. Arcade tightens the cap--just in case--before placing both bottles back in his pack. He recently acquired a book, only slightly scorched, about the world economic collapse of 2024. The last thing he needs is to find it wet and ruined because Six forgot to turn the cap all the way. Again.

ED-E beeps, the only warning Arcade gets before he collides with the still form of Six’s back. He staggers back, holding onto Six’s shoulders to keep her from falling. She smiles at him in appreciation, instead of annoyance.

“Why did you stop?” Arcade asks.

Six points into the distance. “What’s that?”

Arcade follows the line of her arm to see Dinky the Dinosaur, standing tall and proud in the distance.

Dinky, the guardian and protector of the small settlement of Novac.

Novac, where one of the Remnants of Navarro resides.

Not just any Remnant. 

_Daisy_.

Arcade swallows. “Just some Old World attraction. Probably crawling with Raiders. We should avoid it.”

Six turns to him. She frowns. 

Arcade tries not to squirm under her scrutiny.

“Since when are you afraid of running into Raiders?” she asks.

“I’m not.”

Six shrugs. “Then, let’s go. I wanna see this attraction. And we need to find somewhere to bunk for the night. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be stuck out in the cold.”

ED-E beeps in agreement.

Arcade goes through his options. Insisting they continue on will raise more suspicion than Arcade is comfortable with. But he’s also never been a particularly good liar. If he and Daisy happen to meet, he’ll have to rely on her to give the appearance of total strangers, to shake his hand and do the introductions, as if the woman hadn’t raised him since childhood.

If he’s lucky, Daisy will be out prospecting. Or perhaps she’ll be with Old Lady Gibson, down at the scrap yard, sharing whiskey and tales of the _good old days_.

Arcade sighs and trudges on behind Six, the bot bobbing along behind him.

 

 

The sun has already set by the time they make it to Novac. Six ogles the dinosaur and the impressive size of it as they approach.

Arcade keeps his head down as they pass through the gate. Until Six pushes through the door into the office.

The woman at the reception desk looks up as they enter. “Welcome to Novac, welcome! How may I help you?”

Arcade watches as Six sheds her quiet courier skin. It’s really a marvel to behold, the way her whole demeanor changes into something far more charismatic than he knows her to be.

She pulls at his elbow, bringing him in close. “My husband and I are lookin’ for a room for the night.”

She winks at the woman behind the desk, like she’s sharing some sort of secret. “It’s our honeymoon.”

The woman claps her hands in front of her, beaming first at Six, then at Arcade. “Oh, how delightful! I have just the room in mind. Now, it’ll be 100 caps per night. Feel free to stay as long as you like in our paradise, as long as you pay upfront for each additional night.”

The woman stares at Arcade for a long moment, until he realizes she expects _him_ to pay. He wrestles caps from his pack and places them on the counter.

It’s not the first time Six has used the ‘honeymoon’ gag. It usually scores them the best room available, often at a discount. But it also means the room will contain only one bed. Even after weeks of traveling with Six, Arcade still finds sharing uncomfortable.

It’s better, by far, however, than sleeping on the dirty motel floor.

ED-E flies throughout the room, beeping happily, letting them know the room is clear of any danger. 

Six smiles as it hovers by the door, settling in like a sentry. She places her messenger bag into the safe, before giving the room a brief once over.

Arcade knows what’s she’s going to say before she says it. “I’m gonna go explore.”

Arcade stretches, cracking the bones in his lower back. “Have fun.”

Six squints at him, her eyes sparkling. “You going to make good use of that bath?”

“I’m an old man who enjoys simple luxuries, what can I say?”

Six laughs. She takes ED-E with her for both protection and company, leaving him alone to enjoy the first bath in many, many days.

Scrubbed pink and wearing a pair of soft cotton pants and the cleanest shirt he owns, Arcade lounges on the large motel bed with his book. He’s just about to really dive into the analysis of the economic collapse, into graphs and charts and tables, when Six enters. 

She ushers ED-E into the room behinder before closing and locking the door.

She looks at him for a full minute, hands wrung together in front of her. 

When she doesn’t say anything, Arcade sits up, on high alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone,” she says. She swallows. “Someone was asking about my friend.”

Arcade’s eyes flicker to ED-E, but Six shakes her head.

Fear turns Arcade’s blood cold. “About me?”

“Yeah. About my blond doctor friend. The lady, she seemed friendly enough, but you’re cagey about yourself the best of times.”

“A lady?” Arcade hardly allows himself to hope.

“Yeah, an older woman. Said she used to be a pilot.”

Relief hits his system like a fresh dose of Med-X. Daisy. “Did she ask--did she ask anything in particular?”

Six shakes her head. “She told me I was lucky for snagging myself a handsome young gentleman. Then she gave me this big ol’ wink and told me to take care of you.”

Arcade fights the juvenile urge to bite his lip. He stares at the thin blanket spread across the bed, instead, thoughts racing.

The mattress dips as Six sits down beside him. “Do we need to leave?”

The question startles Arcade. He looks up, meeting her watery blue eyes with his own.

“We can go,” Six continues. “We don’t have to stay here. Not if it gets you in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Arcade hates how weak the question sounds. He damns his own vocal cords for his inability to lie when his life most depends on keeping secrets.

“You talk. In your sleep. I’ve heard that name before, the one she gave me. Daisy. Her asking about you doesn’t seem like coincidence.”

Arcade folds into himself, his hands balled into fists, warping the greyed, fraying blanket.

Talking. In his sleep. How much has he said? How much has he given away? Who else has he put in danger?”

One of Six’s hands settles over his own. “Don’t stop breathing on me now.”

Arcade forces himself to take a breath. And another.

“I’ll pack up. It’s dark enough, we could sneak out pretty easy. Just have to go ‘round, outta range of the sniper in the giant gecko.”

Arcade laughs, just a rasp of a breath. “It’s a dinosaur. Dinky. Dinky the dinosaur.”

“What the heck’s a dinosaur?”

“Like a gecko, but much, much bigger. Lived and died long before humans walked the Earth. Dinky is what you’d call a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”

Six gives him a look like she’s not quite sure if he’s telling her a story, then shakes her head. “The dinosaur, then.”

She moves then, ready to leave the comfort of their honeymoon suite behind. All without questions. All without answers.

Arcade catches her wrist. “What? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“But--why?”

Six shrugs. “Your secrets are your own. I’m not about to force you to share them. You’ll do that when you decide you’re good and ready.”

He flinches. The words strike him like a physical blow. Can she really mean not to push? Not to pry?

“We don’t--” he says. Or starts to. He takes another breath. “We can stay. Daisy--Daisy is safe.”

“You sure?” Six searches his face. “Your dreams. The ones where you say her name. They’re not good dreams.”

Arcade shoves his hands beneath his glasses, presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. It’s not a question, but he answers anyway. “No. They’re not.”

In his nightmares, he sees the Remnants taken. Jailed or worse. He sees Daisy dragged off by any number of organizations--NCR, the Brotherhood of Steel, nameless, faceless bounty hunters. In his nightmares, the Remnants’ suffering, their sorrow, as they are summarily rounded up, all of it is his fault.

He nearly brought his nightmare to life. If not for Six--not bright enough to put the scant information he’s let slip together, too _good_ to press him for every detail--he could be in chains. Together with Daisy, given to the nearest NCR outpost for a duffel bag full of caps. Enough to feed any wastelander for months.

Arcade recoils when Six’s hand settles on his back, nearly having lost himself to the nightmare images playing in the spots dancing in front of his eyes.

“You stopped breathing again,” Six says. She smiles, small and sad. “Don’t tell me you forgot how.”

Arcade breathes out another laugh, ending in a hiccup when it gets caught in his throat. “I always was a quick study. I’m sure I’ll figure it out. In, out. How hard can it be?”

She lets him breathe for a long moment. 

“I was serious about leaving,” she says. “Even if Daisy is okay. We can rest up, be outta here by dawn.”

He wants to stay. To see Daisy. It’s been a long time. But he can’t. Not now.

Her words to the courier were message enough.

 _Take care of him_.

He holds onto those words, hoards them in the back of his mind.

“Please,” he says.

Six smiles again. She ruffles his hair, still damp from the bath and the heat. “Sleep, if you can.”

“Yeah.” Arcade takes off his glasses, sets them gently onto the bedside table. He curls up on the bed and closes his eyes.

But he doesn’t go to sleep. He can’t trust himself.

Six lays down on the other side of the bed, her presence a small comfort.

Silence descends in their little motel room. After a few long minutes, Six reaches out, her fingertips brushing his bicep. “Sleep, Arcade. I’ll wake you up. As soon as you start talking, I’ll wake you up.”

He curls further into himself. He doesn’t mean to, but eventually, with Six’s warmth at his back, at the sound of her deep, even breath, he falls into sleep.

He wakes to her leaning over him, the motel room pitch black aside from the faint glow of her Pip Boy.

“Arcade. Arcade, wake up.”

He slumps back against the tattered, nearly flat pillow, boneless and raw. “‘M awake.”

“Good,” she says. “Good.”

Her hand rubs up and down his arm, grounding him. “That one seemed a little rougher than usual.”

He’s not sure why he says it. Perhaps it’s the bone-deep weariness. Or the fact she kept her word, that she woke him up, that she still hasn’t asked him a single question about his past. But it comes out of him, all at once, his secrets spilled. “I’m Enclave.”

“Enclave?”

Arcade barks a laugh. “The fascist paramilitary organization? The last bastion, as they say, of unmutated American hope?”

Six frowns, her face distorted in the glow of her Pip Boy. She taps the side of her head, to the bandaged reminder of her gunshot wound. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I thought you were a Follower?”

“I am. I _am_. Now.” Arcade sits up. He hangs his head between his knees, unable to look at her. “My father was a soldier in the Enclave. The Remnants, everyone in his squad who was left after the NCR took Navarrow, we scattered. Tried to assimilate. But they--the NCR, the Brotherhood--they’re looking for us. I hear the bounty these days is a wastelander’s fortune. I wouldn’t blame you if you turned me in.”

“Turn you in?” Six asks.

Anyone, even Six, would be swayed by the prospect of such wealth. He can’t blame her. Not really. “I just ask--leave Daisy out of it. Leave the rest of--they’re my family. The only family I have left. I can’t--I can’t be responsible for--for--”

He thought himself beyond the ability of tears, after all this time. But heat pricks at his eyes. Arcade scrubs at them with his sleeve.

“Hey,” Six says. “Arcade.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Arcade.”

He lifts his head.

“The Arcade I know isn’t a fascist or para-military or any of those words. Even if I don’t really understand what they mean.” She smiles. “He’s a Follower and a doctor. He’s too smart to be hiking around the desert with a courier, but he does it because he wants to help people.”

“But--”

Six shakes her head. “I’m not going to turn you in. Not you. Not your family.”

A punch to the gut would have been less of a shock.

“Now breathe,” Six says. “Relax. I’ll keep your secret safe. I’ll do everything I can to keep _you_ safe. Even if I gotta sleep with every soldier in the NCR.”

He swallows. 

There are a thousand responses he could give her and none of them could properly express his gratitude. Instead, all that comes out is “Don’t forget the Brotherhood of Steel.”

Six raises her brows and laughs. “Yeah. Them, too.”

 

Daisy watches, cigarette balanced on her lip, as Arcade and Six heft their packs in the blush of pre-dawn sunlight. She smiles and watches as they descend the stairs.

Arcade allows himself to return it, just the slight tug of his lips, just before he and Six make their way beyond the chain-link fence.

 

They don’t talk about his past after that night. Not until weeks later, when they’re sitting around a campfire in an abandoned shack.

“I was thinking,” Arcade says.

Six smiles. She bumps up against his arm. “You do that a lot.”

Arcade laughs. “Right.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“The Remnants. If we’re planning to go up against both the NCR and the Legion, we could use their support. Their experience, their technology.”

“Do you think they’ll help us? If they’re in hiding--”

Arcade shakes his head. “If I trust you, so will they.”

Six hums in thought. “We can try.”

They settle into silence, each watching the fire, lost in their own thoughts.

“Arcade?” Six asks.

Arcade looks at her.

“You know whether they help or not, your family will have a place in New Vegas, right? If we can free New Vegas, they won’t have to run anymore. _You_ won’t have to run anymore.”

Arcade stares.

“You know that, right?” Six repeats.

“I--” Arcade shakes himself out of his stupor. “I would like that.”

Six smiles. She leans against him as they return their gazes to the fire.

A minute goes by before Six says, “I was actually thinking myself.”

“Oh?” Arcade asks, teasing. 

Six laughs. “Yes.”

Her expression falls into something far more serious. She takes a breath. “I was thinking. I was thinking there’s going to be a fight. And I was thinking, when the time comes, you should go back to Freeside.”

Arcade blinks. He frowns, trying to ignore the pang of hurt at her words. “I can fight. I have my plasma pistol. And, if it comes down to it, I have my father’s old power armor.”

“I know,” Six says. “I’m not saying you couldn’t hold your own when things go down. But things _are_ going to go down. You’re my friend, and I want nothing more than to have you with me, but you’re a doctor and a Follower. We’re going to need you in Freeside, after all of this is over.”

“But--”

Six gives him a look. The same look which makes him squirm, certain she can see all the way inside him. “Putting on that armor is not going to make up for a past you were never a part of. Your father was the soldier, Arcade. Not you. His sins are not yours to erase.” 

Arcade swallows. She’s right, in a way. While he still feels the enormous weight of the wrongs committed by the Enclave, he is his own man. He joined the Followers of the Apocalypse to right some of those wrongs. Yes, he is a product of his past, of his family, but he doesn’t have to let it define him.

 

In the end, Arcade returns to Freeside. In the end, when the battle is over and the chaos has settled, when the wounded are tended to and the dead buried, he’s there to help the Followers teach the citizens of a free New Vegas to govern themselves. In the end, in the years to come, still working in Freeside, tending to the sick alongside his old friend Julie Farkas, Arcade will find himself not looking over his shoulder for bounty hunters, but for the familiar hat of Courier Six and the Eyebot bobbing along beside her.


End file.
